Overdue
by Jayneysuk
Summary: A date between us must surely be overdue. A short Isobel Richard piece of fluff. Instead of arguing Richard asks her out on a date. Who will have the final upper hand.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Overdue****  
****Pairing: Isobel/Richard****  
****Rating: K****  
****Summary: A date between us must surely be overdue.****  
****Spoilers: Set post Christmas episode but nothing specific.****  
****Disclaimer: The characters being to Julian Fellowes, I merely play a little but for no financial gain, and certainly with no disrespect.****  
Author's Notes: One line in a magazine on a flight and this is what you get. There is a second story/chapter to this if people like it (maybe more) but I'm not sure if I have the characters right. It was more of a distraction than an intention to write them.**

**Overdue**

Isobel was overwrought, she thought it was possible that she had been like this for weeks, months even, but she had quite frankly had enough of feeling this way. It was cousin Violet's fault with her commentary of life in the post war era and Cora's desire to return to life pre-war. And then there was Doctor Clarkson and his controlling, meddling, obstinate behaviour. While none of them wanted the world to change they all failed to see that the world had changed them, which wasn't a bad thing, if they embraced it.

It was the controlling, meddling and obstinate doctor that was the cause of her temper today. Since the war ended and he was demobbed he had found himself at a loss. The hospital was busy but with the soldiers gone, his patients presented him with less challenging ailments, his work with less consuming passion. He had therefore taken to managing the hospital, taking personal control over each and every detail.

Whilst in the middle of doing a linen rotation she had been interrupted because he had scheduled lunch. The new timetable left the nurses with little time to carry out the necessary duties and put the patients on some sort of conveyor belt of care. She had a good mind to remind him that it wasn't St Thomas' and it wasn't an army hospital run to within an inch of its life, it was a cottage hospital where patients mainly needed rest and individual care.

Glancing around the ward she folded her arms across her chest, taking deep controlled breaths as her annoyance grew. He needed to be told and she was going to be the one to do it. Turning on her heel she strode purposefully towards his office. Taking a deep breath she rapped on his door.

"Enter," came his voice, his tone that of professional patience.

Isobel pushed open the door and stepped over the threshold, closing the door behind her.

Richard looked up and inwardly groaned. His hand moved immediately to his temples, rubbing gently at the look of determination on her face. "Mrs Crawley."

"Do you have a minute, doctor?" she asked, bracing her hands on the back of a chair.

He rose reluctantly to his feet, finding height was often an asset when dealing with Isobel. "Of course, for you."

"I don't want to seem like I'm interfering," she started and he knew then that was exactly what she was going to do.

"Is this about the new rotas?" he asked with a sigh.

"Yes, they just don't allow the nurses enough time to prepare the wards for afternoon rounds."

"You don't agree with them."

"They are impractical, unworkable."

She really was beautiful when she was riled, he mused, even when she was riled at him. Her delicate hands moved through the air as though conducting an orchestra, while she made her point, her eyes darkened the more animated she became and he often found himself staring at her lips as she spoke.

"Dr Clarkson, are you still with me?"

Shaking himself, he smiled. "Of course."

"So instead of supervising lunch the nurses are still changing the beds," Isobel continued, oblivious to his lack of enthusiasm for the discussion.

He thought it a shame that she insisted on wearing black and navy to the hospital when she looked almost perfect in purples and blues. It had something to do with her eyes he suspected. The eyes that were now staring intently at him, one eyebrow arched. He was about to get an dose of her temper if he read the signs right and usually he would indulge her, maybe even placate her but for once he didn't feel so inclined. Instead he allowed himself a small grin and tried a different tact.

"Richard."

As much as he loved hearing her say his name he knew it only happened when she was about to shout at him. Taking a deep breath he said simply, "A date between us must surely be overdue."

Isobel visibly started, her jaw dropping, her eyes widening in surprise. "Dr Clarkson?"

Richard moved around the desk, finally coming to rest against the front of the desk, the width of the chair between them. "We've circumvented the subject for more years than I'd care to remember. Near on eight if you want to be precise," he offered more confident in the face of her obvious consternation.

"We have . . ."

He wasn't sure if it was a statement or a question but he continued regardless. "So allow me to take you somewhere respectable in York and buy you dinner?"

"Dr Clarkson." Isobel allowed her eyes to move around the room, deliberately avoiding his eyes, stifling the girlish grin that threatened to quirk at her lips. Something in her stomach fluttered at the prospect of an evening in his company.

"Richard, please. Or would you rather I obtain Matthews permission?" His grin morphed into a smirk in the knowledge for once he had the upper hand in their conversation.

"Dear God, no," she replied vehemently, not wanting Matthew to have even the slightest knowledge that his mother may still want to court.

"Dear God no to dinner, or dear God no to asking Matthew?" he queried in a teasing tone. "You are usually so clear in your opposition, Isobel."

She wanted to slap him, would have if it were not so unladylike. "My opposition, Richard, is to you speaking to my son, not to the proposition of dinner."

"Invitation, Isobel. Proposition has many more interesting connotations."

The heat spread through her body and she was sure her face must have the hue of a raspberry. "That was what I meant."

He opened his mouth to speak but as usual she gave him little chance.

"Invitation, Richard." She rolled her eyes dramatically then her lips began to tweak into a smile, a plan forming in her head. "You have never eaten at Crawley House, why is that?"

He hesitated momentarily, pondering the correct response then ploughed on, "Could it possibly be that it would be improper for us to dine there alone?"

"No," she said shaking her head, "more likely that one of our disagreements prevented me asking before now. I feel that it is time we rectified that." Isobel lifted her head, her eyes finally catching and locking with his. "Richard, I would like very much if you would dine with me at Crawley House."

His brow furrowed as he wondered how they had gone from a very public dinner in a restaurant to a very intimate affair in her house. Suddenly the whole situation had gotten out of his control but she was smiling at him and had yet to storm out in dismay. That was a promising development in itself.

"We could arrange it for Friday night," she continued unabated. "Wednesday is Moseley's day off. Thursday afternoon Mrs Bird likes to go to Ripon, and I'm afraid I'm expected at the Abbey on Saturday."

"Yes," was all he could manage.

"Good. That settles it, Friday night it is," she said with a slight nod of her head and a smile. "Now I need to be getting back, and I am sure you have a million and one things to do."

He was sure he did too but his mind was still processing what had just happened. "Yes."

Isobel stepped away from the chair, smoothing down the silk of her dress as she moved. For all her confidence moments before, the realisation that they were indeed going on a date was starting to hit her. "Friday, shall we say seven thirty for eight?"

"Yes, Mrs Crawley." Richard released his grip on the desk and rose to stand upright. "Seven thirty sounds perfect." The little boy in him wanted to rock on his heels and dance around the room at the prospect, the man in him contemplated the consequences of courting her. Neither thought seemed appropriate as she stood there watching him.

"Well goodbye, Dr Clarkson," Isobel offered as she stepped through the open doorway into the hallway. She pulled the door shut behind her, leaning against the wall as she let out the breath she had been holding, her corset finally loosening its constraint. When she had entered his office it had been on the pretence of berating him on some subject or another. She had weeks of pent up frustration, finally bubbling to the surface and it was so easy, usually, to get him riled enough to argue with her. It released her tension, and his she suspected. This time it had failed to go to plan. They had traded a few barbs and then he had completely thrown her off kilter, in a way only he could, with a date. Now she was not only going to share a meal with him, but the sanctity of her home too. It was slight crazy to contemplate but it simultaneously sent a thrill through her, making her want to scream like love struck girl. Her eyes caught sight of the young nurse watching her and she nodded perfunctory, before darting down the corridor oblivious to the beaming smile on her face.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Date**

He had been waiting for what seemed like an eternity under the canopy of her porch. A momentary thought brought a furrow to his brow then an imperceptible nod as he had renewed certainty that he had the right day. Firmly he rapped on the solid oak door, stepping back to try and catch a glance inside the drawing room window.

A few seconds later the door swung open wide and Isobel stood before him, a wide smile on her lips. "Good evening, Richard."

"Good evening Isobel," he said, taking a step forward.

"My apologies for the delay but I was caught up in the middle of something."

"Was there a delay? I didn't notice." He gently leaned to his side, his eyes looking beyond her into the hallway. "No Moseley tonight?"

Her smile grew rueful, her expression a little guilty, her hands clasping at her side. "He's not here. I gave him the evening off to help his father."

"Oh," he hesitated, one foot over the threshold, one on the step. He hadn't contemplated the prospect that they would be alone. As the village doctor he made it his business not to be unchaperoned in the house of single women, nor married women for that matter. There were always questions of his being compromised, and for at reason he had few friends to spend his spare time with. "Are you sure this is a good idea? If people were to find out we were . . .," he trailed off, slightly embarrassed as she grinned back at him. "We could postpone to another time."

"Oh, come in and stop procrastinating," she chided, bemused by his concern for gossip. "I gave them both the night off so we could be alone." While his invitation may have surprised her and given him the upper hand, she fully intended to level the odds.

Richard gulped as he stepped over the threshold. "My concern at this point is for your reputation, Isobel."

"I would be more concerned about your stomach. I gave Mrs Bird leave before she had chance to cook." She glanced at his hands. "Are those for me?"

His eyes followed hers, settling on the bouquet of flowers in his hand. "Yes."

"Thank you." He really was the sweetest man sometimes and wonderfully old fashioned. She lay them gently on the hall table. "I'll put them in some water in a moment."

"We could still go out," he suggested, mentally debating how much better it would look for them to dine in the pub.

"I may not be a cook, Richard, but I can still rustle up a three course dinner. It may not rival the Abbey," she retorted, leading him down the hallway. "But hopefully it will be a slight improvement on dinner at the Grantham Arms." She opened the door to the drawing room and made her way across to stand before the fireplace.

Richard moved to stand next to her, his hand resting on the mantelpiece inches from here. "Where did you learn to cook?" he asked softly, hoping to eliminate the frustration now evident in her voice.

"My mother taught me when I was a young girl." Which, she mused was several lifetimes ago. "It came in handy at nursing school, and when Reginald and I first married." Her gaze drifted to the carpet as she thought about her late husband, the memories evoking a sadness in her as they always did.

Richard watched her, all too aware that she was briefly in another place. He wanted to stretch his fingers and touch her but something held him back. He waited until she lifted her head. "Well I'm looking forward to trying tonight's menu."

She gave him a small sad smile.

"Is there anything I can do to be of assistance?"

She raised an eyebrow.

"I know how to peel vegetables and cook a hearty breakfast," he said defensively.

"I'll bear that in mind should I ever be passing your cottage at eight am," she laughed, her eyes twinkling at the thought. "In the meantime, please let me fix you a drink."

She crossed the room in a swish of satin to the small tray of aperitifs she had Moseley set up.

"A sherry, thank you."

Isobel poured two small glasses and handed him one, her hand shaking slightly as their fingers brushed.

Covering it with his own, he gave her a small smile. "I may be many things my dear Isobel but I am not a cad. You are perfectly safe with me."

Her eyes dropped to their hands before returning back to his eyes. "I know that but thank you for saying it."

He wanted to remind her that it was she who had orchestrated this intimate affair, but it disappeared from his thoughts as she continued to gaze into his eyes as she had many times before and their hands continue to touch as they held the glass. It was familiar yet indescribably charged.

"I should go check on dinner," she announced, finally breaking the contact. She was almost at the open door when she stopped and turned. "You don't find me incredibly silly for wanting to cook you dinner, do you?" she asked, her tone light but her eyes betraying her apprehension.

"Oh course not." Richard gave her a small reassuring smile. "There is something very special in wanting to do something for someone else."

"It's nothing," she said simply, ducking her head as her cheeks flushed pink.

"Which is why it is everything," he replied, throwing her own words back at her. In truth he couldn't remember the last time someone, other than his housekeeper, had made him a meal, and it was quite endearing that she wanted to take the time.

She smiled the smile he seemed to invoke in her and slipped out of the room.

Left alone to his own devices, Richard couldn't help but grin, rocking back and forth on his heels as he contemplated on his evening. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined eight years on he would be having dinner with Isobel Crawley. In truth in those first few days he couldn't have anticipated them even becoming friends, let alone the friends and colleagues that they had become. Of course they still annoyed each other, she frustrated him beyond belief some days, often times intentionally, but their relationship was now based on affection.

"There may be a short delay," she announced, returning to the room, her hands moving through the air in frustration. "My soufflés are a little flat."

He smiled, stifling the laugh that he knew would annoy her and change the mood of their evening. "You really don't take the easy way with anything, do you?"

"I wanted to impress you with my culinary achievements." Isobel settled herself on the edge of one of the armchairs, her legs tucked to one side, smoothing down the fine silk of her blouse. "It has been a very long time," she started, stressing the 'very,' gazing up at him from beneath hooded lids. "Since I went on a first date."

"It is not something I do everyday either," he countered, his tone light despite the weight of his words. "It's hard to imagine meeting someone, let alone wanting to spend the rest of your days with them, when you've lost someone you love." He finally took the chair opposite her, his drink discarded on the end table.

"You never speak of her," Isobel said, a hidden question behind her statement.

"No one here knew her."

Isobel sighed deeply. "It doesn't mean you shouldn't talk about her."

"The point is, my dearest, that I want to be here tonight with you," he offered succinctly, avoiding the sudden wave of grief that washed over him. "You look beautiful tonight by the way, not that you don't always." His eyes were drawn to her ankles, covered in the thinnest of stockings, exposed by the high hem of her dress, drifting upwards to what lay beneath the satin of her skirt. "It's just I feel tonight I can tell you that."

Isobel grinned as he stumbled and tripped over his words. "Do you think possibly the reason we didn't do this before is because we are both so terrible at it?"

He chuckled with her. "That may be the case but it doesn't mean we shouldn't try again."

She nodded, her nerves and trepidation slipping away. For days she had been worrying about the evening, carefully planning her menu, fretting about her outfit, convinced that everything hinged on the evening being perfect, convinced that he would never ask again. "If you would like to make you way into the dining room, I will rescue the starter."

As they sat at one end of the formal dining table, eating what had to be the flattest soufflé he had ever seen, he found himself extraordinarily happy. She could, he mused, feed him cheese sandwiches for the rest of his life and he would be this happy. While the table had been laid with the best china and finest linens, she had created an intimate, romantic setting through the careful positioning of candles and flowers. They were almost side by side their knees gently brushing, their hands inches apart, and they were alone.

"I'm sorry," she apologised for the fifth time, lifting her fork to her lips.

He shook his head, not caring in the least whether the soufflé rose or not, or the potatoes were burnt. "It's perfectly fine."

"Oh dear." She furrowed her brow and her jaw dropped slightly. "That bad?"

"No, not at all. I've always been a little more partial to dessert so I'm no connoisseur." He took another bite of the starter, endeavouring to clear his plate just to make her happy.

"I made a crumble." Men seemed to like rich, heavy puddings and her mother had taught her well. The fact it was something even she couldn't mess up was a blessing.

"See, the perfect way to a man's heart."

Isobel rolled her eyes. It had never been that easy in reality. Making Reginald happy had taken a lot more than a well cooked meal. He had wanted a son, and heir, a dutiful wife, and after a few drinks . . . She allowed her thoughts to trail off, not wanting to linger on the more uncomfortable aspects of her marriage. "Let me clear the dishes."

"I wish you would let me help," he protested, feeling a little uncomfortable under the circumstances that she was waiting on him so diligently. It was supposed to be a romantic date not a chore for her.

"You can wash dishes later," she offered nonchalantly.

"Really?" Richard asked, surprised that she would so easily give in. Isobel could argue that black was black and still wouldn't give in until he made the case for her.

"No." Isobel rolled her eyes at in disbelief. Looking back courting seemed much easier in the her teens. You were introduced to a fine young man, you spent many an evening getting acquainted surrounded by friends before he would ask your family for permission to court you, then the real fun began. It really was quite a mind field in her fifties. They were considerably older for one, and getting to know someone seemed inordinately more intimate than in had in her youth. Then there was the fact you could step out for an evening alone, not that she imagined they needed chaperoning. "I'll be back in a moment. Have a drink. Relax," she ordered with a sense of urgency that did little to put him at ease.

When she returned a few minutes later juggling several serving bowls in her hands, he rose to his feet and she reluctantly let him help, least she drop everything, disappearing again only to return with another bowl and a serving plate of roasted pork. There was probably enough food to feed a family of six but she wanted to make sure he left well fed.

As she heaped yet another spoon of vegetables on to his plate, he commented dryly, "Do you realise we've been together nearly an hour and we haven't argued once."

"There is still time, Richard." She really did love saying his name, wondering when she began to add 'my' to it in her head.

"I'm trying hard here."

"You're very trying," she teased, patting his hand with her own. "But I'm learning to tolerate you."

He arched an eyebrow. "Merely tolerate, Isobel?"

She blushed crimson and he turned his hand over to hold hers, dinner momentarily forgotten. "I was so hoping it was more than that."

"Richard," she gasped hoarsely, trying to slip her fingers from his. As he held firm, she lifted her eyes to meet his, surprised and a little overwhelmed by what was reflected in them. "You're incorrigible."

"So encourage me," he whispered, releasing her hand and turning back to the meal before him. Aware that they were now on unfamiliar territory, that his actions and his words could be misunderstood, he endeavoured to change the atmosphere in the room. "This looks wonderful."

They stood in the hallway as the grandfather clock struck eleven, Richard slipping his arms into his coat as he prepared to bid her goodnight. The remainder of the dinner had been spent engaging in pleasant conversation, punctuated with brief moments of flirtation. Over coffee they had sat side by side on the settee, their hands resting on the soft fabric between them, neither sure of what the other wanted. The longer they had sat, the more reluctant he had been to leave until she had been unable to stifle her yawns any longer and he had taken it as his cue to leave.

"I have enjoyed this evening, Isobel, very much," he offered finally when it seemed she would stand silently watching him, nibbling on her bottom lip, until he left.

"As have I." Her smile lit up her face, the lines around her eyes crinkling in genuine happiness.

"Would you permit me next time to take you out?" They would go to York, he decided, have dinner in one of the nicer hotels then maybe go to the Theatre.

"Yes," she offered eagerly, wondering if it would be improper to ask when.

"Of course I may need to consult my diary, check I am not required at the Abbey," he teased with a smile.

"Of course," she grinned back.

He glanced down at her lips, briefly, then back into her eyes. He let out a sigh, so soft that she almost missed it. "Would you permit me to kiss you goodnight."

Her heart raced in her chest as she found herself nodding mutely. It was somewhat improper on a first date but she had long since reached an age where impropriety had prevented her doing much at all.

Richard leaned in, tilting his head slightly when it became apparent she was not able to move. Lightly, he allowed his lips to brush hers, pulling back when her mouth parted slightly. Her eyes were wide, and glazed as she looked up at him. He took that as his cue she would permit him another. The second kiss lasted a few seconds longer, the third ended with her arms around his neck, her fingers toying with the hair at the nape of his neck. After that he lost count until he felt her pull away with a deep sigh.

"Isobel?"

"I'm alright," she repeated over and over, her hands gripping his arms firmly, surprised by the intensity of her feelings in response to his lips on hers.

"I'm sorry."

"You dear man, please don't be sorry. It has been a long time since I have been thoroughly kissed like that." If at all, she thought. The kiss had awoken feelings deep within her that she didn't feel appropriate to share with him, feelings she needed to consider in her own time. As it was she hoped the heat that now radiated through her body was not clearly evident in the pigment of her skin.

"With that thought in mind, I bid you goodnight."

Isobel gave him a small smile, her fingers finally slipping from his arms. "Goodnight, Richard."

"Goodnight, Isobel." He took a measured step towards the door. "Will I see you at the hospital tomorrow?" It was childish and a little sentimental for a man of his age, but he wanted to see her with a self satisfied grin on her face and know he had put it there.

"Maybe, probably, after lunch," she offered coyly.

"Until then." His grin widened as he set foot into the cold night air, happiness radiating through him. As he pulled his coat tightly around him to ward off the slight nip in the air he felt the all too familiar the butterflies forming in his stomach in anticipation of seeing her again.


End file.
